


Seeing Red

by Ickleroonilwazlib



Category: The 100
Genre: DOING THE DIRTY, F/M, Frickle Frackling, Oh yea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ickleroonilwazlib/pseuds/Ickleroonilwazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angry sex. Yaass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Red

They had been at it all day. Sniping away at each other. Sarcasm dripping off every word. He’d growled out his answers in clips while Octavia responded through gritted teeth. They bickered often enough but it was usually about silly things, things they’d hardly remember the next day. They were both headstrong people and stubborn to boot. But this wasn’t just another squabble.

They had been at a war meeting. The City of Light was a looming disaster waiting to happen, far worse it seemed, than the Mountain Men. After the war against the Mountain Men and the revelation of both leaders’ betrayal, the alliance was on shaky ground, to say the least. Clarke hadn’t been invited to the clans’ war meeting—there wasn’t even a mention of the Sky people. The only reason Octavia had been accepted (albeit grudgingly) was because of Indra, something she was very grateful for. She may be a Sky Person and her loyalties remain with the surviving 74 but if Lincoln and Indra were going to war with their people, so would she.

That is, until he had spoken up. Octavia barely remembers the conversation that ensued. All she remembers is that she saw red. How _dare_ he think she should be left behind? Under the guise that she could protect the Tri Kru village from the other clans? Octavia knew that just because they were allied, it didn’t mean the clans stopped being enemies. The Ice Nation was a fine example—just last month, they nearly massacred another clan’s entire village over a simple land dispute. The Tri Kru had tried not to get involved but within the allegiance there were finer bonds; some clans were closer to others, bound by marriages or pacts, and most absolutely hated the Ice Nation. So what? She would be left to babysit the remaining warriors while Lincoln risked his neck out there with the rest?

No.

The meeting had been a disaster from start to finish, with nothing getting decided, arguments getting out of hand, and even worse the clans were now split on whether or not to bring in the Sky People back into their plans. On top of everything, Lincoln and Octavia had made a great scene in the middle of it all, to the point where she had stood an inch in front of his face to snarl her disagreement with him. Indra, though proud her second’s resistance, had to step between them to prevent any...unpleasantness from happening.

But there was nothing that could stop the hurricane from coming and all it took was a small movement from him—his hand reaching out to inspect the deep wound on her forearm—for the harsh winds of her words to start.

“Don’t touch me!” She stood up, wiping mud off her clothes, the fight with a fellow Second over and another one with Lincoln just starting. Lincoln didn’t say anything but his nostrils flared.

“Again,” she motioned to her sparring partner who’s eyes darted to Lincoln for a fraction of a second. Octavia growled and pointed her knife under the poor guy’s throat.

“It’s me you should be worried about, not him.”

“Uh…”

“We need to talk,” Lincoln interjected, his voice grave behind her but she ignored him and nodded at her partner. He held the knife weakly in his hand. She felt Lincoln’s large hand on her shoulder, a heavy weight in which she found no comfort at the moment—not when she felt the anger boiling in her veins.

“Don’t touch me,” she repeated through gritted teeth, still facing her partner who was looking extremely uncomfortable. Lincoln’s hand didn’t move. Finally, getting nothing from her sparring partner, she turns the knife to Lincoln, who (and she had to give him a little credit for it) didn’t even flinch.

“Are you fucking deaf or what?”

The other Second shuffled away as quietly as he could, trying not to draw attention to himself but Lincoln and Octavia had already drawn an audience.

“I said we have to talk,” his voice was steady but his eyes held a warning for her. _Don’t start this right now._

“Like fuck we do.”

Octavia sheaths the sword back into the scabbard and stomps away, not trusting herself to stay in his presence. She's discovered that with the confidence of being able to hold her own in a fight also came the strong desire to fix all her problems with her fists, not her words. And while it was taking a lot out of her to unlearn this undesirable side-effect of sparring, she definitely didn’t want to lose control with Lincoln. She hears him trail behind her, his steps wider and bigger than hers and before she knows it, he’s standing in front of her again.

“I’m trying to work this out,” Lincoln stares her down, his voice exasperated but quiet, "What is the matter with you?“

"Me?!” Octavia all but shrieks, “Me?! You’re the one vouching for me to stay behind like I’m not as good as any other damned warrior in this village."

She’s advancing on him, her finger pointing accusingly at him.

"Is that what you think? That I’m not good enough to be out there with you?”

He swats her hand to the side.

“If you gave me a single moment to explain what I mean—but you always fly off the handle when you think someone is insulting your abilities—”

A small crowd has now gathered around them. It was always good fun when two warriors solved their differences with a healthy sparring session, even more so when they were lovers. They had started to take bets and Indra, at least, remained loyal and bet quite a large amount that Octavia will land a good uppercut to his face.

“How do you expect me to react when you tell the entire clans that I should babysit their fucking warriors?”

She shoves him with both hands, with enough strength to force him back a step. His nostrils flare again.

“Stop,” he warns and then after a beat he adds, “Wars aren’t always fought on a battlefield. The village is important. You need to stay behind.”

She knows that. She doesn’t want a massacre both out there and here too. It doesn’t mean she’s not still fucking pissed. Her finger is inches away from his face, sharp and accusative.

“Don’t ever tell me what to do,” she breathes, “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

There’s only the roar in her ears after that, the faint cheers from the crowd echoing in her head, and the feeling of her knuckles connecting with his jaw.

She’s _instantly_ regretful; no matter how angry she is at him he doesn’t deserve her violence but she can’t seem to help the anger flowing through her. She’s already stepping back, her hands up in surrender and tears forming in her eyes but nothing, _nothing_ prepares her for what he does next.

Before she knows it, he’s thrown her over his shoulder like a petulant child and carts her off midst laughter and jeers. She swings her legs as much as possible, definitely getting him in the stomach at least once, before he throws her off once they’re inside their home.

“You _sikatre branwada_ piece of shit—”

“Enough!" His roar echoes in the small room.

"You’re going to shut up and listen to me FOR ONCE,” Lincoln is clenching his jaw (which is already turning purple), angrier than she’s ever seen him, “I have never thought of you as weak—that’s the damn reason why you’re staying. The village needs someone to be able to protect them, from inside and from outside.”

He’s now the one pointing an accusing finger at her.

“But you always jump to the conclusion that I’m trying to shelter you—” he sighs deeply, “I know who you are.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said that in front of the clans,” she starts removing the sash across her body, throwing the scabbard on the table, “you could have spoken to me before or after but not in front of them. Now I look like a coward.”

She begins ripping her clothes off, the heat of the summer night made worse by the anger in her veins. The sleeve on her jacket scratches her injury and she hisses in pain. His touch is almost instantaneous but her rage hasn’t dissipated just yet. Add the growing regret of her punch and she definitely does not want to be touched.

“Don’t touch me,” she repeats, shrugging him off, “You made a fool out of me today.”

She hears him sigh, to calm himself. He knows one of them needs to be clear headed. With both hands on her shoulder, he keeps her back to him, helping her out of her jacket.

“Calm down,” he commands but he should know better than to command her. The glare she gives him over her shoulder could put the fear of death on any sane man. Lincoln merely stares her down. Yes, there’s undiluted enmity in each other’s eyes, frustration that’s been building for some time, but with the anger also comes a tangible tingle down her spine. His eyes are darker than anything she’s ever seen. Lincoln has been an absolute ass to her today but she’d be damned if his stare wasn’t boring a hole into her. He’s trying to help her out of her clothes but she squirms out of his touch, no longer just angry but now stubborn. He holds her in place with one hand, pushing her past the table and into the wall, holding her there as she continues to curse him and squirm out of his touch.

“Calm down,” he repeats but it only serves to set her off again and Lincoln thinks that a part of him knows he’s bating the tiger. Her heel comes down on his foot, making him hiss in pain, and in response he pushes her into the wall harder, just enough for her to echo his pain. Their breathing is labored now, whatever is rising between them is undiluted, and Octavia wants to both kiss him and injure him. She feels the hardness of his body, for there are no soft spots on Lincoln, and presses herself unabashedly to his unyielding form. She’s still wiggling against him, both trying to get out of his hold and wanting to sink deeper into it, but then she abruptly stops. He hesitantly lets go of her, his defenses up the moment she turns around but instead of taking another swipe at him she grabs a hold of his shirt and drags him down her lips.

The kiss has no sweetness to it. It’s raw and savage, so much that he swears she’s drawing blood, but he has no patience to deny it. Octavia is tiny compared to him but she’s a hurricane of nails, teeth, and whispered profanities against his lips. Small hands have pulled him closer so that she’s climbed his body as she would a tree, now effectively pinned against the wall, nails raking down his back with abandon. He yanks her hands off him, to pin them against the wall but she growls in warning, teeth baring down on the pulsing vein on his neck that has him hissing in pain again.

Then it’s a flurry of taking off only the necessary items; both are too far gone to care about anything else as he turns her around and pushes her against the wall, not softly, her hair captive in his hand when he sheathes himself inside her from behind. Her nails dig deeper into his leg with every thrust, her head arching back with pleasure so suddenly she knocks into his still aching jaw but the pain only adds to the pleasure. She’s clawing at whatever skin she finds, legs shaking with bliss, pushing back against him with such desperation he groans at it, as if palpable, and has to brace both hands against the wall as she takes over the rhythm. Then there’s nothing but her motions against him, harsh lips stealing his shuddering breath, her hands holding onto his streched arms for balance, as she grinds out an answer to the burning question in her belly.

She comes with a curse on her lips and her nails lodged in his skin. The sensation has him clenching his eyes, his head falling against her back, breathing through the spasms of her body, both internal and external. He gives her a few seconds before he turns her around once more, slamming her back against the wall and enters her again, to find his own answer. She responds with a guttural cry, her ankles locking behind his back, demanding more, harder, deeper. His hands will leave marks on her hips, he knows, but finds he doesn’t care very much. There’s only the sweetness of her neck, the bite of her teeth, the chanting of curses against the shell of his ear.

It’s laughable that she thinks he’d ever find her weak, not when her body so happily accepts the brutal thrusts of his, not when she’s the one picking up the tattered pieces of his failures, she who has stood next to him through countless dangers. It’s not Octavia who’s weak. It’s him. It's always been him.

He starts whispering pledges of affection against her neck and suddenly the nails stop their scarring, her teeth stop their biting, replaced instead by soft kisses on his jaw and whimpers of pleasure. She comes again, softer this time, and it’s all it takes for him to follow her.

Her hands are softer when she touches the bruising jaw, apologizing with words and kisses. He accepts them with caresses of his own.

“I’ll stay,” she submits, pressing her forehead against his, “this time.”

Her fingers run along his face. He shaved just this morning but she already misses the prickly sensation his stubble leaves on her skin. Fear starts to creep in.

“Come back to me,” she commands.

“I will,” he promises.

She’d hold him to it.


End file.
